About Patrick
by royalmycroft
Summary: Charlie tells his friend about another friend, and feels slightly less alone. Oneshot.


**Title: **About Patrick**  
Summary: **Charlie tells his friend about another friend, and feels slightly less alone.**  
Notes: **Warning for mentions of suicide. Please review!

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**About Patrick**

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Dear Friend,

I want to tell you about Patrick. I've realized, that over the course of me writing to you, I haven't talked about him in too much depth. You don't know his favourite songs or what his favourite color is or who he had his very first kiss with. I've told you about Brad and the alcohol and the bad times. But now I want you to know other things, the kind of things that I've had to take time really thinking about.

I've been spending a lot of time with him. We talk about suburban legends and the football team and Sam and the books that I'm reading. Patrick likes to know what's going on with me. I haven't told him everything, although I feel like I could tell him anything and nobody else would know. I think that he feels the same way about me. And this is the reason why I feel like I should tell you more about Patrick. Something big happened the other day. Not the kind of big that makes you feel all happy inside, like carnivals or the first snowfall of winter or getting a good grade. This was the kind of big that made me think differently about everything, and I'll explain why soon.

We drove to the golf course and sat together on the eighteenth hole. It was cold out and our breath mingled with the cigarette smoke. Patrick was drinking wine straight from the bottle, the kind that only seems to appear during Thanksgiving and all the men in the family marvel over how vintage it is. It was one of those 'destiny' nights. Patrick was so sure that he was free now, that he could take on the world if he wanted to. I wondered if he had slept, ate, taken those pills he buys from the pharmacy in town. And I wondered how long it would be until he cried and wished out loud that he could just die right there.

I had one mouthful of wine and I felt like my throat was on fire, so I choked a little and dribbled it all over my shirt. Patrick laughed at me, which made me smile a lot. When he laughs, I can see _him_. I can't see the broken shell that Brad has left behind, I can only see the boy from shop class with his impressions and penciled on beard. And when I'm the reason for that smile, everything suddenly feels right in the world.

Patrick drained half of the bottle and fell backwards onto the grass. The sky was clear and dark blue. I joined him and looked up at the stars. It's only since I made friends with Sam and Patrick that I realized just how many are actually out there. I reached up a hand and imagined grabbing them. This is when the big something happened. It was silent, except for the rush of traffic somewhere far in the distance. I was counting the stars, when Patrick spoke suddenly, his voice almost real casual, but with a hint of sadness behind the words.

"My mom killed herself."

Patrick was ten when she died. She was always ill, he told me, and she spent a lot of time in hospitals all over the state. His father found her in the bathtub while Patrick was at his first sleepover. They fought a lot, Patrick said. He could remember the smashing dinnerware and yelling that used to keep him awake all night. His mom used to cry a lot, and she hugged him a lot too. He can still remember the smell of her perfume and the fabric of her sweaters. On good days, they all had dinner together and his mom would be beautiful and his dad would laugh a lot. But on bad days, she just sat at the kitchen table and cried, and his dad couldn't do anything about it.

When Patrick got picked up the next day, it was his uncle in the car, not his mom. He wanted to tell her about the buttered popcorn and the scary movie they watched, and how he didn't have nightmares but almost everyone else did. And when he asked where she was, his uncle had stopped the car and told him that she had gone away, which Patrick was used to by then. She was always going to stay in other places, she got sick sometimes. Patrick didn't know why because she never threw up or had a fever. When he asked if she would be home soon, his uncle started to cry. And Patrick understood then that she wasn't coming back. She didn't leave a note.

I thought of my Aunt Helen then, and Michael too. It didn't feel bad like it normally did. Patrick talked about the funeral and the counseling and how he still doesn't know exactly how she did it because his father won't tell him. His councilor helps with the nightmares, but Patrick said that the crying still hasn't stopped and he feels sick when he remembers the way that she would sob sometimes. He said that he misses her all the time, but he has Sam and his father and another mom, one that isn't quite a mom but she is just as good. I reached over and held his hand, because that was the right thing to do. It was clammy and warm and his fingers tightened around mine. It felt nice to just do that, so he knew that I was there.

To say that I wasn't surprised by Patrick's story would be a lie, and I don't like to lie because it hurts people. I don't want to hurt you, because you're my friend and you've been there for all this time. I was so, so surprised. My heart dropped to my feet when he said those four words. I've been beside him for so long now. We've exchanged Christmas gifts, made each other mix tapes, laughed through shop class, and cried together. And I had no idea. This is the thought that made me think so differently about everything. You could love someone, watch them grow alongside you and know for certain that they are the happiest person on earth. But beneath all of that, they could be hiding so much that nobody else can see. And now, when I look at Patrick, I can see everything. When somebody tells you something like that, something so personal and difficult to talk about, it is hard not to look at them differently. And I don't mean that in a bad way. Patrick is probably one of the strongest, bravest people that I know, and now it just seems more apparent.

I'm not sure how long we were outside, just holding hands on the golf course. We fell asleep at one point. When I woke up, Patrick had rolled over and he was clinging to my arm. I'm glad that we have something so sad in common, which sounds strange when I say it, but I don't mean anything bad by it. It just makes me feel less alone. And when I tell him about Aunt Helen and Michael and the things inside my head, which I will so someday, I hope that he feels less alone too. I really hope that he does.

His favourite song changes every week, he likes purple and red, and his first kiss was a girl named Rachel when he was twelve.

Love always,  
Charlie.


End file.
